


The Dagor Belegann

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Epistolary, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long Peace, M/M, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: The distance between Himring and Dor-Lómin is not so far, when one has a fast horse and an unlimited supply of couriers. Let The Battle of Mighty Gifts commence!(Chinese translation now available)
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 86
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to Nightfall, who provided [a translation](https://cypressboatwandering.wordpress.com/2021/01/07/%e3%80%90%e6%a2%85%e7%86%8a%e6%a2%85%e3%80%91%e6%8e%88%e7%bf%bb-the-dagor-belegann%ef%bc%881-10%ef%bc%89/?preview=true) of this work into Chinese.

**The Dagor Belegann, as compiled by Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor in Lindon, S.A. 1550.**

The following compilation of correspondence may be of some interest to any scholar or loremaster studying the great craftworks of the First Age, or to certain historians focused on the Long Peace, the Siege of Angband, and the House of Finwë in Middle-Earth during the First Age. While many were originally written in code or under assumed names, the handwriting, materials, and linguistic quirks have been definitively matched to the addressees hereafter named.

Take heed of the dates listed; these letters should not be read as direct replies to each other, and it should be assumed that many parts of the correspondence are missing between.

(Note: some of these letters contain explicit material. Elves should have attained majority of 50 years, Edain children at least 20, before reading further.)

_A letter, addressed To High Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum; from Maedhros, Lord of Himring in East Beleriand, 117 F.A.:_

_Finno,_

_Himring has seen the first snowmelt river of the year. I think it will soon be thawed enough for good hunting. I write of this fact for no reason whatsoever. I also write, for no reason whatsoever, that my crafty brothers have finished setting up their own residences, and as such, are no longer in my fortress._

_I write further to congratulate your brother upon the completion of his city. We have heard of the wonders of the fountain even in the East, though I hold no hope of one day beholding it myself. I have the love of one of Fingolfin's sons, and do not mind being hated by the other overmuch._

_We fight orcs. They come and come and come, but my people are hardy, made powerful by these harsh winters. I cannot allow the Enemy to think himself unassailable, even for brief months._

_I spend a good deal of time thinking about the differences between our people and the Sindar. Is it truly only that we have seen the Light of the Trees? Will our people's children be faded at birth? I will never have a son of my own, but I wonder truly if there is anything special about us, or if we are simply Those Who Have Seen. I do wonder at the fecundity of these Moriquendi, though; our own family tree seems to be shriveling, rather than branching, and not only because of our bending of that particular branch. Of seven sons, my father only had one, one grandchild! Your own father, of four children, has just one also! Our uncle, of his brood of five, still just one! But perhaps I am mixing "infertile" with "cursed" again._

_Forgive the philosophizing. Maglor makes his fortress near mine. I can never tell if he is sad, or simply needling me because of who he is. Either way, I think I will throw him into the snowmelt soon. You should dunk Fancy Turgon in his fountain. It does wonder for the good behavior of little brothers._

_I enclose a gift. You of all people know my skill at the forge lies primarily with breaking things, but I was once considered to have some skill in gemcraft. Frankly, I had Celebrimbor help me. It is poor work next to your beauty, but I received a lovely gemstone as tribute last month, and could think of nothing but setting it into a circlet for you._

_It matches your eyes._

_In peace, and in health, I await your freedom to visit. You are always welcome. Or perhaps I will come to you, under the guise of "taking counsel" with the Lords of the West._

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The circlet mentioned in this letter is likely The Moonstone Crown of Dor-Lómin, which was lost after the scattering of the House of Hador. See references to this crown in other works: _The Silver Bow and the Golden Wyrm, The Ballad of Serech, Flight to the Firth._


	2. Chapter 2

_A letter, addressed to Lord Maedhros of Himring, from Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum, 129 F.A.:_

_Maedhros (for it is my name for you, though I long ago granted the world at large leave to use it as I do--though NOT to use anything else of you as I do),_

_Your latest gift is quite exquisite. I confess I do not know what to do with a clock so beautiful, save put it under glass and breathlessly count seconds until I see you again. You do_ _not_ _sleep enough; I know this, because I have not seen you in my dreams in quite some time, though I have been cultivating this skill._

_Speaking of skills I have been cultivating, I've spent a season in Nargothrond, and learned something of healing songs from our fair cousin, one of your troublesome harpists. When next I see you, you must let me lay your head in my lap, and sing to you of summer. I think I can ease some of your deepest aches. I tried the same with a Silvan elf who has sworn to me, who long ago was a captive of a band of orcs (not the Enemy, but bad enough), and he found some surcease and ease from my words--though I did not permit him to put his head in my lap!_

_I will never be a true healer. I am too much a warrior, I think, and have taken too much life to ever truly (true, truly, I repeat myself, but we have not an inexhaustible supply of paper for me to start over again whenever I write in error) repair it to what it was. You have had better healers than I, but I will be the most dedicated, and certainly most ardent. Ah, what a long sentence, and poorly constructed! My brother would be mortified at how sloppy the bricks I use to build._

_I have heard Maglor's new song. Did you_ _really_ _ride out to meet that band of orcs by yourself? I don't know why you bother employing your thousands of bannermen, if you are so reckless. But of course, you won the day. My brave bright flame. I will learn this song, and sing it when I have finished singing of summer, and do so in your ear, to remind you to be more cautious._

_I hate writing letters. I'm sending you a gift also, though it is far poorer than yours to me. I don't know where you keep finding all these beautiful gems and magnificent arms and enchanted salad forks and everything, keep something fine for yourself! You live in a stark mountain fortress, I dwell in a lush green valley!--when I cannot get away and dwell at your side._

_Essaying of which (that cannot be the right phrase), I am coming. Expect me before the passes are closed by snow. I will winter with you, which I believe you will find most agreeable._

_Yours._

_Post Script: I forgot to tell you what the gift is. You have sent me circlets, earrings, teacups, and all manner of arms, so I assume you have your nephew close by. Well, Hithlum is not empty of smiths, though none of them be of the blood of Fëanor and wear an eight-pointed star. I send you a sword, to protect you when you must ride out quite ridiculously by yourself. I think you will find the reach pleasing; your stature makes standard swords look like toothpicks. The smith was insistent that a normal elf must wield a sword like this with two hands, and it must have a longer hilt. I informed him of the recipient, and he went quite pale!_

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The clock mentioned here survives in the Halls of Antiquities here in Lindon. The longsword mentioned has never been recovered, though later testimony places it in the hands of its recipient as late as 556 F.A. The song mentioned is most likely " _The Ride of Maedhros on the March,_ " attributed variously to bards Daeron, Tinfang, and Maglor. This letter seems to confirm the suspicions of those who attributed it to Fëanorian origins. The song was rarely performed after the War of Wrath, as with all other ballads that speak of the Sons of Fëanor and their heroic deeds during the Siege, most of which were stricken from the official records.

 **Additional note from Gil-Galad:** I have never believed that the song did justice to the absolute enormity of the horse Maedhros used to ride.


	3. Chapter 3

_A letter, addressed To High Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum; from Maedhros, Lord of Himring in East Beleriand, 151 F.A.:_

_Finno,_

_I will win this gift exchange. My brother Caranthir has met with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. I defy you to find a better gift than this necklace I send, wrought of what they call 'silver-steel.' Nay, do not try; I am victorious, and you will be the most decorated prince since Valinor, as if I had full use of my father's forges, and his talent, and both hands. Lacking all three, still I send you this necklace, that those around you may gape in wonder at its beauty set against your own._

_I dreamed of you last night. I think it was a true dream, so you will know of it, but I will speak of it even so. We were in my room back at Formenos, which has been on my mind of late, hearing the dwarves speak of their great craft. You were playing your harp. We knew ourselves to be alone in the house, for we knew it was a dream, and we took advantage of it._

_How many kisses I stole from you, ĕrĕmelda. I tasted your lips as though you exhaled miruvor, and I wanted nothing but to be revived by you._

_It felt as if some great peace had been laid upon us. We moved slowly, and I had my pleasure with no shadows, and you breathed a prayer when you came undone in my arms._

_I wish I could mandate a dream where I could braid your hair again. My mind can create me a body a thousand feet high to bestride Beleriand itself, or one capable of flight, or one that can hew Thangorodrim to rubble with one fell swoop, but it cannot seem to fashion me a right hand. At least in the dreams of you, I never bother to remember what it is that I lack. This is notable; there is much that I lack, and well I know it._

_I've enclosed a letter to your father, regarding troop movements, and what the East can spare for the ongoing siege this month. I don't suppose there's any chance of an eagle, to bear me to you, just for a stolen moment?_

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The silver-steel necklace mentioned is likely the Ithilmîr, which was recovered from the palace of High King Fingon after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. This would seem to contradict the official record in Gondolin that the Ithilmîr was forged as a wedding gift for a great elven lady (unknown). Current location is in Númenor.

_~_

_A letter, addressed to Lord Maedhros of Himring, from Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum, 198 F.A.:_

_You have issued me a challenge with your last gift, so I will set myself to the task of bettering it. I think you will enjoy the outcome._

_You also set me a task, whether you knew or not, with the way your last letter inflamed me. The moment I read it, I had to send away all near me, and reread it in private, for fear I would disgrace myself._

_All right: you want me to be more clear about what I will do to you, when next I have you in Himring? I have not your talent for erotic wordcraft, but I will try._

_I will, at the first, remove your robes. (For the sake of this Narrative, this is not a day of battle, and you are not wearing armor. That requires more paper and ink than I would care to use when I can skip ahead.) Then I will touch your body everywhere--everywhere you wish me to, of course. But this is my fantasy, and in it, you are burning for my touch._

_You try to fall to your knees, but I pull you back up. I love your mouth upon me, but not today, my love, not yet. I need to hear you moan before I let you drink your fill. So instead, I will take you out onto the ramparts. Do not blush--this is happening in my mind, and it is quite safe._

_As the night of_ veryanwesto _, you will kiss me until I cannot breathe, but I know far more now. Imagine, if back then, I had turned you to face the wall, had you lean over the ramparts, and buried my face between your beautiful thighs, readying you with my tongue, when we were so young. In this fantasy, I will have incredible patience, so you may do your best to imagine yourself at the mercy of such treatment._

_(If you would like your hands bound in this Scenario, you may imagine it so. Otherwise, I will simply assume you are holding quite still because of how much you are enjoying yourself.)_

_When you are wet and loose and ready for me, I will make you wait. You are fond of teasing me so, and I confess, I wish to return the favor--but I never remember during the act! I'm always far too distracted by wanting you so much._

_So I will make you wait. The air will be warm, because I say so, and you will be bare, whilst I am still clothed. I know you enjoy this picture. So do I. I will, if you plead prettily enough, take myself out from my breeches (this is a Fantasy, so my breeches will not pool Unattractively around my ankles, but remain where I put them). Then I will rub myself against you, taking my pleasure, but denying you what you want more than anything. I will endeavor to make you wait, until you are quite desperate to feel me inside. You will doubtless find some suitably filthy thing to say to entice me: I urge you to utilize your imagination._

_(Praise of my form will likely suffice, or some comparison of yourself to a rutting animal, or just telling me how much you Require the head of my cock reaching in all the way to your throat. But these are just suggestions, and you may be creative.)_

_Regardless of your enticements, I will reward you, and then..._

_Then we will join as one, as we always have been, since the first I saw you in the Great Square of Tirion, and knew my handsome cousin for my own someday._

_My thoughts fly apart at this point in the narrative. Every time I try to imagine it, I have to stop and pleasure myself. I will finish the narrative in person, for I am set to travel in less than a month. I long for the cold of Himring, because you will be burning beside me, my bright flame._

_I enclose your gift, for in the days I took to compose this, I have received it. One of my brother's craftsmen has outdone himself. I know the size of your Valinarin mount to be far taller than any in Dor-Lómin, so I sent to Turgon's people to craft a saddle that could settle upon even that Great Beast, that even your Ridiculous Length can ride. You will find a goodly extra length in the stirrups. You must be properly outfitted. Your brothers, the Ambarussa, told me upon their last pass that the one you have been using was hewn by wargs, and I cannot allow you to fall._

_Tales of your valor burn in me, but they frighten me, too. Father says you fight as one seeking your own destruction. He wishes me joy of our union, but says for all your bravery, he would wish it otherwise, for he fears you will never be truly at peace in this world. We captured an Orc-chieftain last week. He told us his people do not dare the "Dread March," for even the Enemy himself knows of your vigilance, and quails._

_Father also says to tell you the horses are fine and strong, and he considers them a gift, not a penance._

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The use of the Quenya word in the 7th paragraph here (forbidden in Beleriand at the time) seems to confirm the long-disputed theory that King Fingon and Lord Maedhros were married, not merely lovers; the use of the Quenya implies to most scholars that this wedding took place in Valinor, before the Sundering of the Noldor. This is, of course, directly contradicted by the official histories of Gondolin, and my predecessor, High King Turgon, who has made his opinion on the subject quite plain. Though this has little bearing on the large-scale recording of Eldar history, I have long believed the family tree charts to be incomplete without this notation.


	4. Chapter 4

_A letter, addressed To High Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum; from Maedhros, Lord of Himring in East Beleriand, 234 F.A._

_Finno,_

_For one who hates the winter as much as I do, I have chosen an ill post to man for these centuries. It does not seem so cold when you are here. I know you have duties, and this past decade has been like time out of a dream. But I am a glutton, when it comes to peace, and when it comes to you. I was born a creature of war, but if I could cast away my arms and armor forever to live in a green land with you, I would. I am heartsick of battle, and weary of loneliness._

_Yesterday we were set upon unawares. I was too late. Every orc paid with what they hold dear as a "life," but we lost too many._

_I have had dark dreams. Utûthost has come for me of late. I do not know if they are portents, or remnants. But you always urge me to speak when they come upon me unawares, and you are not here, so I will write of it. Do not feel compelled to read it. It will disturb you, as it does me._

_Thrice this week I have had this dream. I awaken in Angband. (Forgive the blotch upon the page.) The Creature M-----n, as I have told you of before (but I do not wish to write his name) has lined up the heads of my brothers. He tells me of cruel fates befalling them. One by one, he holds them aloft, and says, "High King Nelyafinwë, shall I tell you what folly it was of yours that caused this one to fall? For wild Celegorm and clever Curufin and wrathful Caranthir (I know this is a dream, they had not chosen those names when I was prisoner), it is your stubbornness. For swift Amrod and loyal Amras, it is your loyalty to your father." Then he picked up the final head, and it was not Maglor, but you, Finno. "And this," the Creature said, "was your foolishness in trusting the goodness of others' hearts."_

_I raged, but I was bound and gagged. Then he brought in Maglor (who was whole), and told me I might make amends by killing him (I told you of how many I killed, yea, at my own volition and of my own will, under that mountain). I refused, and he told me that was the cruelest thing I could have done._

_He was right, of course. Leaving someone in Angband is far crueler than killing them._

_Celebrimbor asked me once what he should do, if he were ever taken alive. I think I laughed. Or perhaps it was another sort of noise. He looked quite unsettled. He did not like my response, that it did not matter what he should do, for he would either be rescued or he would be unmade--or, if he were lucky, killed._

_I know you would tell me not to speak so fey. I am alive, and have every intention of remaining so. I am healed in body, for the most part, and in mind, when you are here. This is not a conceit to force you to spend more time here, just a statement of truth. I know you have duties, and so do I._

_I am just so confused by the dream._

_I do not trust in the goodness of the hearts of others. That is you, who does such a thing. In you, what would be absurd in me seems laudable._

_Yours._

_Post Script: A tribe of Silvan elves has moved into my lands, seeking protection. One of their elders is a skilled weaver. I send you the tribute she wove me in exchange for leave to dwell in the March. It reminds me of you. Everything does._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** Read historically, this dream was likely prophetic in nature. The weaving in question has been lost to history. I remember it from my youth, however. It was marvelous.


	5. Chapter 5

_A letter, addressed to Lord Maedhros of Himring, from Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum, 260 F.A.:_

_Maedhros,_

_I was packed and ready to be on my way to Himring for the autumn and winter, but I will be delayed. You would not_ _believe_ _what I have done!_

_Indeed, I scarcely believe it myself!_

_(I shall be mentioning That Fortress in the next paragraph, please prepare yourself, for I will be speaking of my own deeds of Valor and no torment)_

_From Angband came a Great Wyrm, golden-plated and breathing fire--aye, breathing fire! Ard-Galen did it take from us (you will forgive my scribbles, I am in some haste), and Dorthonion, and even the Ered Wethrin! All sights of your great victory at the Dagor Aglareb, marred and ruined (though of course the lives you saved and the glory you won that day will always be so, the plain matters not, that was just for context). _

_It was_ _quite enormous_ _. But I took heart, and courage, and my mounted archers, and we drove the wyrm back to Angband, and there it remained, stuck full of holes, for its great armor did_ _not_ _cover everything, and I think I may have put out one of its eyes._

_A great wyrm! Imagine!_

_I fear you are imagining the creature Too Small. Think of the long wall of Himring, upon the side of the March. From your watchpost to the first tower--that is how large! It could not fly, but scuttled in a most Egregious and Unappealing fashion._

_I must go. If fate is kind, I will only be delayed a few days._

_Oh! My gift to you! I have been in the training of messenger hawks. I will tell you more of this Endeavor later. (And it is an Endeavor!) So this bird that will be bringing the message, this is my gift to you. I am enclosing a small scroll of instructions for care, feeding, and use._

_Must run._

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** This letter contains the first known reference to the dragon Glaurung, of whom many deeds are later known. References to this battle may be found in _Prince Fingon and the Dragon, The Archers of Hithlum, The Silver Bow and the Golden Wyrm,_ and _The Waters of Ard-Galen._


	6. Chapter 6

_A letter, addressed to Lord Maedhros of Himring, from Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum, 385 F.A.:_

_Maedhros,_

_I am become a father?!_

_No, do not panic. My recent visit did_ _not_ _leave me in a state unbecoming upcoming battles, despite your ardor (and you were_ _most_ _ardent; I had forgotten how delightful you are when in that mood, and I confess I was quite deliciously sore in the saddle on my way back), nor have I visited my attentions upon any (un)fortunate maiden._

_You recall our cousin Angrod, I am certain? You must; he is younger than we, but of an age with the Ambarussa, and my dear Aro (who I do not love any less dearly in the centuries since his valiant stand). Surely you also recall his wife, who refused the crossing, and young Artaher, who is Orodreth, and who made the crossing with my folk as merely a babe upon his father's back. (This is poetical Exaggeration; he is older than Idril, and I recall him being quite nimble on the ice.)_

_Well, that same babe has had a son, but finds himself drawn to war (I find him Unpleasant); he is the Warden of the great city of Minas Tirith, and they are regularly beseiged by forces of The Enemy. In fellowship (_ _more_ _on my suspicions of his Motives_ _later_ _), he has sent to me his son to foster. This child, a quite comely youth of no more than fifteen (he is no higher than my elbow!), is called Artanáro, Rodnor, Finellach, Ereinion, and Gil-Galad. Truly, he has as many names as you, and an eye that holds your fire. But he looks like me, I think! For I am his great-uncle of sorts (I think rather I am his grandfather's cousin), a position of utmost importance. So the child tells me._

_My_ _belief_ _is that Orodreth sees his chance, for my brother Turgon has no son, and Aredhel remains stubbornly unwed, and Aro dwells elsewhere (I choose to believe he has Returned, and is with my mother even now for his valor at Lammoth), and I, who will be king if I am neither stupid nor unlucky, will father no sons. You sent me a letter many years ago musing on our terrible fertility rate. I recall it often. But this was not the design of our people, is it not so? For saving misadventure, our birth rate was designed in the Music to be slow, that we might not overwhelm the blissful land of Aman (which frankly, I hardly recall; it seems far less real than Dor-Lómin!). Now that we have Rebelled, misadventure is all we have, and would truly have to rut like beasts to keep up with our Perishing._

_So I believe Orodreth the Unpleasant thinks (or has foresight, to be sure! It is rarely my gift but I can recognize it in others!) that his son may be King someday. Not for many thousands of years, I hope. But he is clever and kind, and Father approves of him. I told him he should better go and live with Father, for it is well known that Fingon son of Fingolfin, Lord of Dor-Lómin, travels often to the East and sees little of rest and of tactics. The child tells me that he, too, will come East, and see the great land of Beleriand. And he calls me Foster-Father, or Father-in-Heart. I am beseiged by Emotions!_

_You will_ _adore_ _this child. I recall how kind you were to your brothers in their youth, dunkings in streams notwithstanding. And you were so gentle with us, even Turo, who deserves only dunkings even now. (I am allowed to say that, yes, even to the King of Gondolin, for he once pilfered the honeycakes before my Begetting Day, and I swore he would never forget the crime.)_

_So, we will come. And you will meet this son of mine, and marvel at his quick wit and wisdom, and you will give me instructions on how to braid his hair, and you will show him how to wield a sword so fearsomely that your brother will be forced to write songs about it. No, another sentence that is far too long! They plague me. Letters are a terrible way of communicating. I need you beside me, in my bed, so I may say all the foolish notions in my head, because when I write them down, they look silly, but when I say them aloud, I know myself to be devastatingly wise._

_I want to put my cock in your mouth, also._

_Prepare a room on the other side of Himring, perhaps? With a fine high tower window, he likes towers (though not so much as my brother does; NO ONE likes towers so much as my brother does. I think in his dreams he sees architecture and grows Deeply Erect.). That way I will be able to have my new son (I am_ _keeping_ _him, I think it's fine as long as I make sure he is king one day?), and you can meet him (he must become your son as well, this is part of my Agreement with Orodreth though he knows little of it), but we will have our privacy. So. A room on the other side of Himring, with a tower. Please make it ready. We will depart from Hithlum by Midsummer, and if the road is kind, arrive at Himring within a month. We will travel with a small band (I trust myself alone on these roads, for I am known to take long walks with naught but my harp and my bow, but he is very small), so if we must pause to waylay an unhappy band of orcs, it could be six weeks._

_Nevertheless, I am coming to you. But I have crossed much longer distances to see you. And would again._

_Bah, this is too long. I have been writing for three days! Not all together, but off and on. And I will see you not long after it is delivered, in any case!_

_Yours._

_Post Script: I forgot to procure a gift! Such is the madness of being a New Father. Ah--I have given you a son! That is far better than any necklace or helm. I am the Winner, you must agree._

_(You will agree, when you meet him.)_

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** My preference for towers was greatly overstated in this letter. As was, I believe, my cleverness and kindness. However, this is a true replication of the fashion in which my adopted father used to speak, so I will not annotate further.

 **Note from the desk of Elrond, Steward of Lindon:** But you are clever and kind.

 **Additional note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** These are historical records, not a place for personal opinions.

 **Additional note from the desk of Elrond, Steward of Lindon:** My apologies, Your Majesty.


	7. Chapter 7

_A letter, addressed To High Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum; from Maedhros, Lord of Himring in East Beleriand, 412 F.A.:_

_Finno,_

_My gluttony truly knows no bounds._

_As I write this, I am watching you ride away. My body still burns with your touch. I can still feel you inside me, still taste your lips. I have had the euphoria of your body next to mine for three full, glorious years. Yet the sight of your back is more loathsome to me than if I had only had you for an hour. I want more. I will never be satisfied. I burn._

_These have been the sweetest three years of my life, Finno. Erenion is grown tall and strong, and you are right; he will make a good king. I would pray for him that he does not need to be one for thousands of years, if I ever prayed anymore. I do not, for all my prayers turn to ash, and I would not risk you or he that way._

_At least my right eye can still see you, though the left still does not function so well at this distance. I want you back here, singing me your song of summer. I want to ride out hunting with Ereinion. I want to find when I am alone the courage that I have with you at my back._

_I must end this maudlin missive and find a gift. I will be victorious. I have in mind something elegant, long, and quite, quite hard._

_Give Ereinion my love. You have all the rest. Nay, that sounds wrong: You have all my love. Give him what you cannot hold, or can afford to spare. Nay, not that either. You have all my love, my heart. I will find more for him, and do._

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** Though the tone of this letter implies eroticism, I believe the gift in question from the date to be the Echamor, the Black Spear of the House of Fingolfin, which did famed deeds during the Dagor Bragollach, but has since been lost.


	8. Chapter 8

_A letter, addressed to Lord Maedhros of Himring, from Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum, 435 F.A.:_

_Maedhros,_

_My father is growing impatient with the long siege, I think. I know I should urge valorous deeds, I should be his greatest champion in pushing us to close with the Enemy at last. But I, too, feel I have become a glutton for peace. Would that the Enemy would stay in his towers forever more, and rots there! I do not mind having to kill orcs for my peace--nay, I confess, it brings me great joy!_

_I do not know how long they live. But always, since that day, I imagine each orc I run down, feather with my shafts, or strike through, as one of the creatures that hurt you,_ arimelda _. I wish I could take your memories. I wish I could sing your pain to a final sleep instead of brief naps._

_You will laugh when you get this letter. Why? Because I am writing it next to you, of course! You are asking me what I am writing now, and I am Lying. I am claiming it is a song for Ereinion, so I suppose I shall have to invent something in that vein soon._

_But you will be leaving in the morning, back to your lonely watch, loathe as I am at the parting. Eight months is too short a time to be with you. A century is too short. We speak of gluttony; I will not be satisfied until we have wrapped ourselves fully around Eternity, for every day I wake and only care whether I acquit myself in your burning eyes or not._

_Did I tell you of the look my brother gave, the last time the King of Gondolin deigned to pay respects to the High King? He entered Father's palace for the Festival of Fireblossoms, all his bannermen around him, and walked up and down as if sizing it up for his own. Then he saw Ereinion--as if they had never met before!--and said, "Who is this?"_

_"My son," I said, proudly, and felt Ereinion stand up straighter._

_"Your son?" said my stupid brother. "Who is his mother?"_

_"Maedhros, Lord of Himring," I said, straight-faced._

_I thought he would catch flies in his mouth! This was Funny enough, but Ereinion picked up on the joke, and nodded gravely, giving nothing away. And so, Turgon, Lord of Gondolin, said a very bad word, and then said, "I would think he would be taller." And stalked off to pretend he was already back in his secret city. My little nephew Maeglin had the oddest look on his face, but of course he ran after Turo, like he always does._

_It was devastatingly amusing._

_But then I looked for Aredhel, and she was not there._

_And Aro is not there._

_My family dwindles as it grows. I hold Ereinion dearer still because of it._

_Whatever my father's plans, I think I will send Ereinion away before they come to fruition. He protests that he is a Noldor grown, but I cannot bear to see him cut down in his youth, loathe as I am to enter any fray without his reassuring presence._

_You have fallen asleep at my desk again. Your wrist hurts, I can see it; why do you wear the false hand when it bites and freezes in the winter? If the smiths can not make one better, leave off and go as you were before. It does not make you lesser. I know you wear it for those around you, for their comfort, but I would have you think of your own. Just because you have experienced more pain than anyone alive does not mean you should think it a trifle to experience more._

_I must go; your hair is too beautiful not to play with, and wake you._

_Yours._

_Post Script: I forgot to thank you for the white helm. Did you enchant it yourself? It feels like you._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The white helm mentioned is the famed helmet that High King Fingon wore during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. No other reference has been made to its enchantment, and no other reference has been found to Maedhros Fëanorian enchanting any objects.

 **Note from the desk of Elrond, Steward of Lindon:** He enchanted a quiver of arrows for me, once, so they would bite through a spider's chitin.


	9. Chapter 9

_A letter, addressed To High Prince Fingon, Lord of Dor-Lómin in Hithlum; from Maedhros, Lord of Himring in East Beleriand, 446 F.A.:_

_Finno,_

_You must come and see these Men. Their ways are strange, but I find them fascinating. I understand there are a few such settlements in your own lands at the moment; I understand further that we have our fair cousin, King of Nargothrond, to thank for their presence. For he played his harp for them, and taught them of us, and now they want to eat my food. He tells the story often, of how they thought him a Valar or the like. Often he forgets the part of the tale where he was hunting with myself and Maglor, and abandoned us to wander in the woods, seeking him, fearing him killed by orcs, only to find him with a hundred hairy, round children. I am, as usual, beset by harpists._

_They eat so much (every day!). They live fiercely. Their children grow so quickly I am quite alarmed. The first settlement under the Man Amlach entered into my service less than a decade ago, and I met a sweet girl--if she were an elf, I would have thought her perhaps twenty-five. Yesterday I met her, and lo! She was suckling a babe! I confess myself astounded._

_Their conceit of love is likewise quite strange. They do not join as we do; one man may have many "lovers." This leads to the creation of a profession called "whore," which is a Man or Maid who exchanges ardent favors for coin. Have you heard of this? It is quite astonishing, and I cannot comprehend what strange fires burn in the hearts of these creatures._

_Aside from this, construction of the new watchtower proceeds well. I am engaged in demarcating new land apportionment; it is difficult and boring, and I wish I had Erenion's steady hand to take my dictation, and to ride swiftly the course I set. Tell him I miss him. I have written him also, but sometimes it means more coming from you. I forget often that you are not his father in blood. If he were not so serious, I would think him your reincarnation. Serious, but not stubborn and sour like your brother. If anything, he reminds me of Arakáno. I hope you will not mind me saying so._

_I have had another dream. It was not so dark, but gave me a most queer misgiving, and I have been wrapped in my own thoughts a great deal since. In full disclosure, I have also had one of the dreams I cannot stand to write of. Utûthost was mighty that night, and I was unable to find a light. You said you wished to know. I was not alone after; I rode to the Gap and my brother plied me with wine until I was dizzyingly unconscious. He had it of my brother Celegorm, who has apparently made a study of the cultivation of spirits most potent in recent years (since your sister's passing--he misses her terribly, though he will not speak of it)._

_A kingly prize do I have for you this time. The great Dwarf-smith Telchar forged this helm for his lord, Azaghâl, who has given it in turn to me. I give it to you._

_I think of presenting to you all of my gifts, winning this Glorious Battle we have forged. I hope it is no crime to envision you as my King, or at least my liege-lord. I confess, this is the tone my fancy has taken of late, with no clear reason that I can see. I want to pay homage to you, Finno. I want to be on my knees for you--because you are worthy, because I trust you to do the right thing, because you are Good beyond any other I have ever met._

_If you are not of the mood to hear a dark turn of fantasy that has been plaguing me, please read no further. I do not truly want these events to transpire; I seek only the purging of mind in writing them down, of telling you._

_I want you to tie me to a tree, Finno. Outside; one of the large smooth-barked ones like we had at home. I want you to carve your coat of arms into my back with a dagger, and tell me it is only right that it should be there, for I am your prize, your thrall._

_I want you to drag your hand through the blood running down my back, then force me to lick it from your fingers._

_I want you to take my other hand, strike it off at the wrist. Put out my eyes with your blade. I have had my eye put out before; I know well how it feels._

_Then I will have no choice but to serve you, a menial slave, good only to be of service to your lust._

_Make of my hair a rope. Make of that rope a leash. Forbid me the use of my legs. Crush them if I obey. Flay me if I don't. Summon the soldiers I've commanded and parade them by me, make them look, make them touch. Make them violate everything that's left of me. Make me submit._

_I don't know what I'm writing any longer. I came back to this after being called away and feel sick. If I were not out of paper and thought you would take it amiss to have no word of the Helm, I would not send it. Do not feel obligated to respond._

_Yours._

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** This letter is the first recorded mention of the Dragon Helm of Dor-Lómin, of which many songs are sung.

It is also an important reminder that those who escape the Enemy are never fully free.

_~_

**Note from the desk of Gil-Galad:** The enclosed is a selection of 10 of the 58 extant letters sent between the Lords of Dor-Lómin and Himring, during the Siege of Angband and the Long Peace, from F.A. 117-446. No letters have been found prior to or following these dates. The other 48 were partially burned, wetted, or otherwise illegible in part or in full. However, it should be noted that these letters were all that survived the burnings and sackings of the fortress and palace, in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and the later sinking of Beleriand. Missing parts are to be expected.

If my childhood and adolescent memories serve, the vast majority of letters that were written and sent have not been recovered. High King Fingon kept a tally, though this may not have been accurate, for the sake of what he called the Dagor Belegann, or "Great Battle of Gifts." This tally was engraved into stone, broken during the aftermath of the death of King Fingon, and eventually recovered by historians.

According to this tally, there are 3,843 letters that have never been found.


End file.
